Strange Fruits
by Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: Sometimes Erik's spying pays off. A surprisingly sweet gesture from the Opera Ghost breaks down barriers. E/C. Complete


He saw her wanting them. The way her blue gaze locked upon the piles and piles of ripe citrus fruits, the way her gloved hands searched her pockets with regret. He wondered if she had ever tasted an orange, if the sweetbitter tang of an orange's flesh haunted her. That forbidden fruit. Or perhaps this was the first time she had seen one and been tempted.

"An orange for the lady?" The weathered man behind the stall called out. He held the fragrant orb up to the light. It glistened with the mysticism of rare things, and even Erik longed for a taste of the sunshine fruit in that moment.

"Oh, no…I can't." She blushed and stammered, her pretty cheeks red. Her curls bouncing as she shook her head. The man shrugged and resumed his calls into the crowd.

"Oranges, fresh oranges here!"

He watched as she regretfully turned away. She slipped into the crowd quietly, her blue skirt delicately lifted in her hands so it would not drag in the puddles of the street.

Oranges, oranges for the lady.

He could not give her much. She was afraid of him. He was monstrous and had been cruel. He was ugly as the shrunken heads carried on the belts of ogres. He was unwanted, inarticulate, and his most common persona was referred to as The Opera Ghost. He had showered her with clothing, a room, silver toiletries, and drawers of ribbons for her hair. She accepted them, but she could not accept him.

But he could easily give her this. He had wealth enough to buy the contents of the market. He would fill his kitchen with baskets of oranges if there was even the chance she would smile. The gold burned in his pocket as he slipped from the shadows. His mask shone in the sun, and the man behind the stall regarded him with suspicion and a modicum of fear.

"I'll take two dozen of your finest oranges." Erik demanded, and then he thrust a gold piece into the man's greedy hands. After shoving the coin in his pocket with a proprietary grunt, the man reached for the fruit. "I shall choose them." Erik said.

The man handed him a wooden crate without argument.

Erik pulled his gloves from his hands, reaching for the oranges with the best glow, the most immaculate color, the firmest flesh. He chose the biggest, most perfect of the fruits, because his Christine deserved the very best of everything. He chose the oranges whose globes were enough to test the span of even his hands. The scent of novelty rose from the glorious pile, as the box became full with absolute perfection. She would love it. She would smile.

Soon, he had twenty-four oranges carefully nestled within the crate. With a final nod to the salesman, Erik disappeared once more into the shadows.

Their lesson was at four. He carefully arranged the fruit in a basket, and left it sitting upon the kitchen table. He pulled out her favorite of his tea things, the ones from Persia with the golden inlay and filled the kettle in preparation. He would ask her to tea after, she could hardly refuse refreshment after singing for so long.

Fifteen minutes before their agreed time, Erik heard a tentative knocking at the front door. She was always early, a necessary habit in the arts. She now knew the tunnels almost as well as he. She was the only other who held the key to the Rue Scribe door.

"Hello, Erik."

"Christine, please come in."

She stepped in shyly, and placed her cloak in his extended hands. He resisted the mad urge to hold it to him until the residual heat of her body left the fabric. She was afraid enough of him already.

"Please, make yourself at home."

Christine ducked her head. Her hands tugging at her hair. She toed off her shoes with a blush.

"It was muddy today."

"Yes, it was."

She looked at him in surprise, and he cursed his errant tongue. Everything was destroyed. She would know that he had been watching her—she would know that he had followed.

Throughout the lesson he remained in a fugue. Her voice was enchanting, her presence intoxicating…and yet, it all seemed the precursor to an event that was destined to fail. Two dozen oranges was not enough to stop her flinches whenever he reached out to correct her posture. It was not enough to stop the audible click of her bedroom lock every time she stayed the night.

How foolish he was, how presumptuous!

Nevertheless, he had bought her oranges. This cyclical madness would not end. He would always ask her to stay. Just a little longer.

The last note died away. "Brava, Christine. Yours is truly a voice without equal."

"Thank you, Erik." She gathered her sheet music with trembling hands.

"Will you stay for tea?" He asked as he carefully closed the piano's lid. It was an attempt at the casual that fell rather flat.

"Oh… I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"It is no trouble at all, Christine. I enjoy your company, and it would be a shame to send you home hungry."

"All right then." She smiled, just barely. Her rosebud lips quirking upwards at the corners. His heart filled.

"Wait in the sitting room, I shall prepare—"

"May I come into the kitchen with you?" She asked.

She never ceased surprising him. "Of course, Christine."

She gasped when she saw the oranges, and pride burned in his chest at pleasing her.

"A special treat for today." He said, as he put the kettle on the stovetop. He watched her select an orange and bring it to her nose. And she looked at him and she smiled.

"Thank you."

"Allow me," Their hands touched at she passed him the orange. He rinsed it carefully, and placed it upon a plate once he had dried it. With his sharpest knife, he cut it into two equal pieces. The juice sprayed in fine mist and the kitchen filled with the scent of citrus as he cut it into slices.

He could feel her gaze upon his back, and dared to stare a glance. She was seated at the table, a place now forever hers, watching him, her head pillowed on her crossed arms. Beautiful.

He arranged the sliced orange on a plate with the chocolate biscuits that she loved so much, and he set it before her. "Please, eat."

Neglecting her manners, she lifted the fruit to her lips with eager fingers. The scent of citrus filled the air again as she tore the orange's flesh from its skin with her teeth. Juice dripped down her chin and from between her fingers. She licked it away with a hum of appreciation and his mouth went dry to see her pink tongue darting across the pale flesh of her wrist.

"How is it?" He dared to ask.

"Perfect." She smiled at him, a genuine smile. He wanted to promise her the world, a grove of oranges, and anything that she should ever desire.

The kettle whistled before he could be so foolish. He poured the hot water into the teapot, and then he say across from her to wait for the tea to steep. She was oblivious to him once again, the pile of orange rinds growing at the corner of her plate. Her fingertips glistened with juice, as she reached for slice after slice.

Erik was enchanted. He had not expected that the eating of an orange would have such inherent eroticism, or that watching her eat would be such a temptation. Her enjoyment made his mouth water for the taste or oranges, and though he wanted to sample the fruit's essence upon her lips, he settled for the slice that she extended towards him.

"Taste it, Erik. It's sweet and bitter all at once. It's the most refreshing thing I have ever tasted."

How could he refuse such an entreaty? She grabbed another slice for herself, and raised it in a sort of toast. Together, they each took a bite.

Sensation flooded Erik's mouth. Memories of Persian terraces and orange groves in the orient. Oranges. How had he forgotten their magic, the way they were inhaled as much as tasted upon the tongue. The angles of his mask chafed his cheekbone as he chewed. He didn't care. He felt almost ordinary. Here at this table, here with her.

He looked across the table to Christine, who smiled and offered him another slice. She poured the tea as he took a bite, and the heady scent of lapsang souchong flooded the air. They ate until the orange was gone, and he sliced another as she laughed, dunking her chocolate biscuits into the smoky tea.

She was looking at him like he was a real man. Like she saw him. And she offered him a bite of tea-soaked chocolate biscuit, and another slice of orange. The perfect combination of bitter and aromatic in his mouth. And as he chewed she smiled at him, and said.

"Thank you, Erik." Her hand atop his upon the table, light as a butterfly landing. New. His kitchen felt warm in a way it never had.

Heaven, sheer heaven.

He vowed that she shall always have oranges. "You are very welcome, Christine."

A/N: I was eating oranges and having thoughts about citrus distribution in the 1880s...and now here we are! Let me know what you think!


End file.
